Phantom Paradise
by ShadowPillow
Summary: Paradise is elusive, an abstract idea that may never come into existence. Danny has searched for it for years, labeling his own den his "Paradise." But in this world he has built up for himself, does he really realize the value of his home? Does he really value what he already has over a revenge that may never come to be?
1. Prologue

Imagine opening a brand new book. You don't know what waits within it. You don't have any idea what you're getting into.

Oh, who am I kidding? Fine, yes, you know a few things about it. Say, perhaps the main character's name. Or the main conflict that set everything off, hopefully nothing too spoilery. Maybe just a little more about it.

That's what this story is. Sure, you've watched Danny Phantom, you know he has ghost powers. I'm here to tell you that everything else in _this _story is going to be different. There might be a few characters that share the same names or attributes, but that's where it stops. Because I love the idea of this story, and hey, look at me running off with it. Here comes a new Danny Phantom onto the prowl, a boy who has very little to do with the Danny Fenton from the show. He's from the medieval era, he's a thief, and what the heck is he planning?

A nice, cold dish of revenge served on a silver platter.

**Warning:** If you're touchy about religion, don't read this. I'm not going to say God doesn't or does exist in any definite terms, as the characters' beliefs are all their own, but this _is _based on the actual medieval ages of our real life world. The Church was very corrupt back then, and that makes up a lot of what's going on here. However, things might not exactly correlate to the culture or feel of this time period (especially because this is more fantasy than anything else, and not actual earth history), so any kind of constructive criticism is welcome.

* * *

**Phantom Paradise**

* * *

Lord Byron had always loved the rain. Even as a child, it inspired thousands of fantastical muses, each tantalizingly and temptingly _fun_. Now, it was refreshing – a new start, a new beginning. He didn't care that it soiled his aristocratic robes, that it made the silk cling uncomfortably to his skin. He was here, he existed, and by _eternity_, at least he wasn't doing any of that paperwork his wife was always chasing after him about.

There was a small smile on his face as he watched the rain patter down, strange illuminations glowing within every drop, rippling through every puddle it hit. For a moment, he thought he saw everything freeze, _just for a single moment_, but it was enough for him to feel awed.

_I'm blessed_. His mouth spoke the words as he thought them, a fervent prayer and warm feeling coursing through him. _Eternity, thank you for this honor._

There was no reply, but he felt somehow lighter than even when he noticed the pouring rain. It was a sign – _he needed to write this down _– Eternity had given a signal to _him _–

The alarm bells blared.

Immediately, he shot up from his chair, mind scrambling to to figure out what had just happened. Hadn't Eternity just blessed him? Why was the alarm going off?

It took a few moments, but soon he was barreling back into the house, hurriedly climbing down the ladder connecting the rooftop to his bedroom. When he made it down, he stared, overtaken by shock and confusion.

It was eerily silent in the house, as if time itself had stopped (_again_, he absentmindedly thought). He took a step forward to test it, but no – Eternity would never do something like _this. _He had faith in that, at least, no matter what the other nobles claimed. But none of this mattered, because he already knew who the perpetrator was.

It was Phantom.

Byron could see his signature painted on the bedroom wall, bright green and illuminating, as if it were giving off light of it's own. That was a trick no one had figured out yet, Lord Byron being one of the more eager ones to find a sample and figure it out, and yet...

He hadn't planned for the opportunity to come in such a hazardous way.

It only took a few moments longer for him to return to his senses. Frantically, he searched his room, trying to find what had been stolen. Ever since Phantom had made his first ambitious mark on the _king _of all people, his name had spread far and wide as an infamous thief. He always stole something, no one ever knew what or why, but Byron just hoped it hadn't been anything too valuable...

He stopped short when he noticed the scrolls on his desk missing. Cautiously, he approached the table, and soon was scouring all the cupboards for the missing papers. The bewilderment grew on his face with every passing second, and at last, when nothing turned up, sunk back into his bed.

"What in Eternity?" he muttered, hand straying to stroke his beard in deep thought. It just didn't make any sense.

Why had Phantom stolen his poetry scrolls?


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Hey, sorry people, I scrapped the version I had up here before. I'd appreciate it if you go back and read the prologue, then read this segment. It's a bit different and better written, as well as in third person instead of first. I'll try to make chapters longer.

Remember, criticisms would be very appreciated!

* * *

**Phantom Paradise**

* * *

He breathed in the cool night air, deep and lush. It had rained last night, another rain to wash away all the sins of this corrupted city. He sighed, gripped the scrolls hidden in his hand tightly, and glared at the image of another fool's mansion, large and towering over the rest of the miserable population. The garishness was only a symbol of their arrogance, and he despised it. The way the nobles thought they were above them, how they rarely would look down even to _glance _at the ants they trod underfoot.

It had been another job well-done for him. Just another job of terrorizing the aristocracy and teaching them that _yes, they could be harmed. They were not above us. _But somehow, it seemed almost too easy with his abilities – elaborate security systems could not stop a "phantom."

He smirked. That name, at least, he had earned for himself.

It was only a few minutes of staring down the gritty cobbled street before he finally turned away, walking down the road towards his home, his "Paradise." That, too, he had created with his own hands.

Four years ago, he had nothing. He had been simply another gutter rat, to be pitied and trod upon. That had all changed when he realized the power – _curse_ – he had been given just three years before that. It was almost funny how oblivious he had been, how naively accepting. That had also changed throughout the years.

His stride was unhurried, almost lazily dragging against the ground. He stayed close to the walls, near the other beggars whose numbers seemed to grow with every passing day. He hated that too, remembered how it felt when no one would even give him a second glance despite his youth and hollow eyes, aching belly. Yet even now, he could not dare to stop and give these people the reassuring smile he had needed back then, or the food to help them through the days. As it was, he had trouble taking care of his own Spooks. This way, he should be able to pass unnoticed.

However, only minutes after the thought, he felt a hand tap his shoulder, warm air tickle his ear. He didn't move, didn't look back, and only warily waited for judgement.

"Danny." He relaxed slightly – only his Spooks knew him by that name. The voice too – raspy, like he had inhaled too much smoke when he was younger, yet also wise and weary – he recognized it. It was Carl; he often patrolled the upper towns. But why had he stopped Danny out in the open like this?

"Yes?" he replied evenly, careful not to make any unusual movements that would draw unnecessary attention.

"Same has a message for you." Carl's eyes flicked behind him cautiously before he leaned in to say, "She says she found something about your 'side project'."

His heart skipped a beat.

"I... see." His mouth felt oddly dry. Would he finally, _finally _know after seven years of wondering? Was today the day the mystery would finally be unraveled? It felt all too surreal. "Thank you." And he left with only a small smile for the man, a slight purposefulness lingering in his step.

He didn't head directly to base – that would have been foolish – and instead cut through various alleyways, turning back more than a few times to shake off anybody following. It wasn't likely and he hadn't noticed anything, but it never hurt to be too careful.

Finally, he reached a small abandoned alleyway, pitch black to the average human eye and foul to the nose. He easily skirted a heap of excretion lying in the way before closing oddly glowing green eyes and leaning heavily against the wall.

_Coldness, invisibility_. He searched for it in his core just next to his heart, wrapped it around himself like a blanket. It came sluggishly, like freezing-cold slush, but he soon felt the telling chill of invisibility. He knew if anybody looked at him now, they'd only see empty air.

This was the curse he'd been given seven years ago. There were other... abilities as well, but this was the most useful, the most familiar to him. After all, it was hard to catch a thief you couldn't see.

And it was far too easy to get in when he could walk through walls.

He sighed, only to regret it a moment later. His abilities did not extent to sound, and the last thing he needed was for someone to start wondering how someone was making noise when there was no one there.

So silently with careful steps, he made his way back to Paradise, now taking a direct route. His Spooks couldn't do this – they didn't even know it was _possible _– but he would take every caution himself, at least, to make sure their Paradise stayed hidden. Because in there, it wasn't just about himself or his own twisted goals. In there, it was about _all _of them, all of his Spooks who had joined him, whether it was for freedom, revenge, or simply to be considered _human _and _alive. _That had always been part of his goal, for everyone to feel valued and safe. And yet, that had been only a small factor when he had decided to start doing this. Most of it didn't come from good will or a heroic sense of justice, or anything of the sort.

Most of it was for revenge.

He arrived at the entrance to Paradise, an old battered door just like every other on the street. Inside, there would be more security measures waiting, people ready to identify anybody who even showed an interest in this particular house as opposed to all the rest that looked exactly like it. Of course, all of that was waiting behind yet another inconspicuous door inside the house, so that it would take more than just a routine inspection or strange coincidence to find the base.

But Danny only walked through the closed door, not bothering with any of this. It confused some of the others sometimes, how they could never catch him entering or leaving. They shrugged it off as him being _the _Phantom, that he probably had some other entrance hidden away that none of them knew about. He had never bothered correcting them.

He passed Tucker, diligently guarding the entrance. He smiled. It was just like him – loyal and steadfast to the core. Tucker had been the first one to join him; for that, he held a special place in his heart.

Sam, on the other hand... She had been the one he had trusted with even a small part of his secret. She wouldn't betray him; her very name was his defiance against the Church. Her job as well – a woman working as a scribe in a band of thieves? The irony was precious.

Now, he was behind her, watching as she scribbled something inscrutable to him on. Reluctantly, he reached inside of himself for the part that wasn't cold and became visible once more.

"Hey." She yelped, a dark ink stain blotting the parchment. Promptly, she turned a fierce glare onto him.

"How do you do that?" she asked. He merely grinned. It was fun sometimes, to use his curse like this.

"Carl said you have a message for me?" It was evading the question and she knew it, but still the words sobered both of them. She glanced around warily before standing up, grabbing a small book and hiding it in the palm of her hand.

"Yeah." She sounded tired. "I got something for you. Think anybody's listening in?" Briefly, he held still, stretching his heightened senses to the limit. There were the usual sounds of scuffle further away, but none in this area. He shook his head.

"It's fine. Go ahead." She opened the book, and he felt a small sinking feeling as he recognized the golden inlaid edges, the fine script on the front. The symbol of that _thing _he hated most. But still he hesitated, waiting with a bated breath. He could be wrong. Sam wouldn't do that to him, would she?

"It's about that 'side project' of yours," she said, flipping the pages, putting a finger to the words. "_Open thy path to eternity, call the sp –_"

Before he knew it, he was right next to her and slamming the book closed.

"What are you trying to pull?" he snarled. Her steady expression did not change. "You _know_, you know that there's nothing but _bullshit _in there. There's no Eternity, no so-called _God_ –"

"Danny." He stopped. He had gone too far; Sam did not share his beliefs.

"Sorry, Sam." Now the irony was bitter. Hadn't he named her in defiance to the Church? Why did she still believe in such a fragment of its teachings? "I didn't mean that."

"Really?" She raised a skeptical eyebrow, and it wasn't in good jest. She wanted to make sure he knew what he had done, and so rubbed it in deep.

"Yes," he said as humbly as he could manage. There was a pause, and finally he raised his eyes to her defiant brown. "Find something about the ghosts, and not from the Scripture." He turned sharply on his heel, walking as quickly as he could manage without seeming hurried.

No, he was not repentant. Even if he respected Sam's beliefs, he did not agree with them. And damn it, his answer was _not _in the Scripture of Eternity. Anywhere but that.

Because if it was...

If it was... then his parents were working with the Church. The very Church that had murdered them.

He bit his lip and walked faster. Yet, he wasn't fast enough to run away from his own mind.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: So. I sort of decided to write another chapter for this story, since it turned out to be a writing day for me. I hope you all enjoy?

I do not own Danny Phantom.

* * *

**Phantom Paradise**

* * *

_I watched them, the two men staring at me as if I were some fascinating creature. They were standing in a mud puddle and their clothes were absolutely drenched by the pouring rain. Dimly, I wondered why they were here._

_"Look, Bran, it's just a kid," one of them said, crouching down next to me. But instead of being reassured, the other man backed away, almost as if afraid._

_"Just a kid?" he repeated, as if his friend were dumb. "'Kids' are freaking scary. They're smart, sure, but they'd also do anything..." The man shivered. "They're real monsters."_

_"Speaking from experience?" His friend asked, eyebrow quirked upwards. The other laughed nervously._

_"Yeah. I was a real brat back then."_

_And then, I finally spoke. Let my voice – so childish, so innocent – ask the question, let it hang in the air, high-pitched and sweet._

_The words, however, were not so sweet._

_"Are you afraid of me?" I asked._

_The two men exchanged glances, and even the friendly one backed away._

_I smiled._

— — —

Danny smiled pleasantly at the man. He was dressed in his finest suit for the occasion, buttoned downed and neat, with only the occasional scuffle or loose string. But that was hardly exceptional for the city; Danny knew, in fact, that this man's suit had probably cost a small fortune. He had seen a king's wardrobe with garments of a far lesser quality.

It was oddly flattering that this man would dress himself up so finely to meet _him_. Humbling, even.

But he was the Phantom and so he could not be humbled by a mere display of wealth.

Danny himself was wearing his worst, most disrespectful rags. They only barely managed to cover the most important bits, and they were riddled with holes. There were no shoes in sight; his feet were exposed to the chilly naked air. It was a costume that fit in with the average beggar.

He relished in the obvious disparity between them. He relished in the delight that came with the uncontested fact that even despite this man's opulence, Danny was still a creature far more powerful than him.

"Welcome," he said silkily to Vosh Alerkson, king of the underworld in Amity. No one knew his name. Or, rather, no one was _supposed_ to know his name. "What can I do for you today?"

"You know perfectly well what I want," the face of the underworld replied neutrally.

"Do I?" Danny smiled again. "Do care to enlighten me."

The man grit his teeth. Danny took great satisfaction in that. He wasn't a noble, but he was an equally disgusting breed. A manipulative snake. A destroyer of lives. An extortioner.

It was a good thing, then, that Danny was the one carrying in his fist blackmail enough to tame him, and take his services for his own.

"The plans," he strained. "I need them."

Danny's eyes widened in faux surprise.

"The plans?" he said, the perfect picture of innocence, the small child in clothes that were far too big and far too ragged to not pity. The man didn't flinch. "What plans?"

"Phantom –" the man growled warningly.

Ah. This was what he had been waiting for. His smile became sharp, dangerous. Brittle. It could have cut a diamond as easily as if it were butter.

"Alkerson." Danny's voice danced around the title, danced and danced as if he were as light as air. He knew it would irritate the man. Then, his voice became as hard as stone, as cutting as a knife slicing through human flesh. "I don't think you're really in a position to bargain, are you?"

His smile remained, a rock in a sea of turbulent storms. The man sputtered.

"We had a _deal_, Phantom. If you don't –"

A flash of metal. A knife pressed to the man's throat, not figurative any longer.

"I don't _deal_ with scum like you," the Phantom hissed. He kicked the man away from him, hard. He wasn't smiling then.

Slowly, the man stood up. Danny resumed his pleasant demeanor, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Now," he said, "let's discuss what _you_ can do for _me_."

The man glared hatefully at him.

"Or…" Danny said nonchalantly, "we _could_ talk about your family instead, if you'd really prefer."

They talked about what Vosh Alkerson could do for Phantom.

— — —

_Her eyes were large, dark brown, shrouded in hate. She snarled at me, growled like a wild animal, telling me to _go away_. Her hand was clutched protectively to her chest, hidden behind her curled body. There was something there. She didn't want me to find it._

_"I have bread." My voice was soft, soothing. "I can take you in." But her glare never lessened, her hate never wavered._

_I smiled._

_"But that isn't what you want, is it? Because the ones who took them away – they're all that matters, right? They're the ones you hate."_

_I held out a hand, inviting her to take it._

_"You want revenge," I said with that cold smile. I watched as her body uncurled, hesitantly opening herself to me. Those brown eyes now searching my face for any hint of deception._

_"Revenge?" Her voice was weak, feeble. I felt a pang of sympathy. I knew how that felt, to starve and have no one care, while the enemies paraded around in luxury._

_"Yeah," I said, and the briefest flicker of a smile appeared on her face. Her body shifted enough that I could finally see what she was holding, and my eyes widened in surprise before I let the smile return once more._

_"You have a book?" She nodded cautiously. "Can you _read_ it?" Again, she nodded, and I felt excitement build within me, an _alive _feeling fostering within me for the first time in seven years._

_"Come with me," I urged, hand beckoning. "Come with me, and I'll put everything we have against them, and we'll _destroy_ them."_

_I could see how her eyes lit at my words, how the fire in her eyes roared to life. Before I knew it, there was another hand grasping my own. It was weak and bony, but still strong, still defying the horrors that had been done to this body._

_Still fighting for life._

— — —

Danny returned back to Paradise feeling rather smug. The feeling faded when he came across Sam wandering the hallways. Her eyes met his, unrelenting.

"Did you find anything?" he barked, an edge to his voice.

"You know I did," she said, quiet but firm.

He stiffened._ You know perfectly well what I want…_ The words reeked too much of the arrogance the so-called King of the Underworld had spouted. Vosh Alerkerson. He seethed in his hatred for all that was bad in the world, and realized he was still staring at Sam.

He glanced away.

"Let's go," he said, curt and down to business. "I have a job for you."

He began striding forward, and she hurried to catch up. _Thwap-thwap_. Her bare feet slapped against the stone floor.

"A job?" she asked.

A callous smile grew on his lips, a frosted rose in the barren plains of his lips.

"I want to strike at them today. I already made plans with the King." It was the title Vosh Alkerson went by. Phantom had indulgently let him, and so the king who sat on the throne had become the Crowned King instead to those who truly knew the business of the underworld.

Sam stopped walking. Angrily, he did too.

"Today?" She was dismayed. "But I haven't finished going over the plans yet."

"That's why we need you," the words spilled out, frustrated. "You're the only one who knows enough about them to make this successful."

She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Out. Opened her eyes, startlingly brown and dark.

"What's the plan?" she asked.

_Success_. It had never taken too much effort to convince Sam. They were united in their goals.

"A tough target this time," Phantom said, eyes alight with perverse glee. "The prince is coming to Amity, to visit his cousin in the clergy. Tomorrow. I want to make them _scared._" When he looked at her, her eyes were hard, but her lips were curled in a way that should have indicated happiness.

"Which one is the target?" she asked.

"Both of them," he said. "They're meeting inside of the Church."

"Oh?" she was interested. "What do you plan on doing?"

He looked at her speculatively. Then his face broke into a grin that hid far too many secrets.

"Why, Sam," he mocked, "one must never ask a thief for their tricks."

— — —

_The end had come. Green fire light the village, green as death. I watched as everything around me ended._

_I watched when the Portal had opened._

_I watched when the Church came._

_I watched when my parents had cried out their last, final cries._

_I felt it when I died._

— — —

The next day arrived. A splatter of green, luminous paint marred the walls of a clergyman's dorm, and something far more precious than poetry scrolls had been stolen.


End file.
